


Where there's smoke

by maybeillride



Category: Free!
Genre: Awkward First Times, Camping, Future Fic, Gen, Haru being a sassy shit, Humor, Kisumi being Kisumi (I hope), Light Angst, M/M, Makoto is a god, Prompt Fic, Reunions, School Reunion, Second Chances, What REALLY happened btwn Haru and Kisumi in middle school anyway??, skinny jeans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-26
Updated: 2015-07-26
Packaged: 2018-04-11 08:38:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4428716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybeillride/pseuds/maybeillride
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Makoto and Haru travel back from Tokyo for their ten year middle school reunion. Of course, they have to reconnect with Kisumi, and somehow during the trip Haru becomes closer with the strawberry menace than he ever remembers.</p><p>Or, I'm serious, WTF REALLY HAPPENED between Haru and Kisumi in middle school? This is me trying to find out and I think I got it. Fight me ;D</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where there's smoke

**Author's Note:**

> This is a big KisuHaru prompt running all summer - if you're inspired, please post your own version!! (And PLEASE watch for more on their way from some crazy-talented folks :))

Haru gets rid of the flier when it comes for him in the mail.

It’s at the bottom of a mostly-nondescript little stack, cable bill for his apartment, swim catalog, the latest issue of the culinary magazine his parents got for him. There’s an airmail envelope, too; familiar and at the same time silently thrilling, and he runs his thumb over the Sydney postmark before sliding it carefully into his back pocket.

Then he comes to the single sheet of paper, folded in three and sealed with a cutesy penguin sticker.

 _…is Nagisa inviting us to some party…?_ he wonders as he snaps it open –

To find _!!!10 YEARS * 10 YEARS * 10 YEARS!!!_ screaming across the top in a neon pink that reminds him – almost nostalgically – of the “Sprashu Fest” posters Coach Sasabe put together for the swim club, all those years ago.

His eyes skate down, and he feels his light smile gradually fade the further he gets.

_Curious about whether Yakamoto-sensei still drives his motorcycle to school?_

_Craving another game with your friends on the basketball team?_

_Looking for that “one who got away?”_

_*THEN COME JOIN US* for the IWATOBI Middle School Ten-Year Reunion!_

_!!!CAMPING * BONFIRE * FOOD * GAMES * STORIES * SONGS * NEW MEMORIES WITH OLD FRIENDS!!!_

_***1 JULY – 2 JULY***_

_***MEET 12:00 AT IWATOBI HARBOR***_

He’s crumpling it in one fist as soon as he’s on the last word.

*

“Hey, Haru,” Makoto says further down the rack of jeans, and Haru pauses holding the pair of navy skinny jeans he’s considering. He waits, weighing the particular tone of this particular phrase, one that always seems to spell _trouble_ whenever Makoto’s compelled to use it.

This time, Makoto sounds … unsure, but at the same time excited, like whatever he’s proposing is a tough sell but it’s worth the risk. Haru’s hands tighten on the jeans, the fabric stretching in his hands.

“…what’s up?” Haru finally asks, flicking his eyes up to meet Makoto’s, whose whole face brightens in response. He pulls a pair off the rack and adds it to the thick stack over his arm, ambling over to lean next to Haru.

“Did you get one of the Iwatobi reunion fliers today?”

Haru lets his gaze wander to Makoto’s selections – white and black and some kind of stonewashed blue straight out of the ‘80s; lets himself be distracted by the obnoxious teen-pop pumping over the department store sound system; bites his lip (on the inside, so Makoto can’t see). Eventually Makoto answers so he doesn’t have to lie.

“…you didn’t get one? _That’s_ weird! I wonder if it has something to do with your folks not being in town…?” He frowns and Haru relents.

“Our _middle_ school reunion?” Haru snorts a derisive little laugh before he can stop himself and Makoto squints and slaps him on the arm.

“No, really. That’s stupid. It’s only been ten years, what’s the point? We haven’t even had time to get fat yet.”

“Oh, c’mon, Haru. Isn’t there _anyone_ you wanna see again?”

“GOD no,” Haru answers with such conviction, it’s like Makoto’s asking him if he’d be interested in repeating freshman year at Iwatobi High. Makoto shifts his heavy burden to his other arm and delicately raises an eyebrow, and it’s Haru’s turn to squint. “Everyone from our class who I care about, I already keep in touch with.”

Makoto’s whole face _softens_ then – “everyone,” of course, means Makoto – but he isn’t done. By a long shot. Haru feels the first acid fingers of dread deep in his stomach as Makoto tugs his arm, determinedly leading them towards the dressing rooms. A pair of high-school girls blatantly eyes them as they pass by but, as usual, Makoto is completely focused on the task at hand.

“Haru. You _know_ that’s not true,” he scolds as Haru ducks quickly into a cubicle. He doesn’t bother taking his track pants off at first, and just leans against the far wall, staring at his running shoes snugged up neatly against each other. He swallows. The sounds of Makoto doggedly working through his own pile in the cubicle next door start up.

Then he says it.

“Don’t you wanna see Kisumi again?” Makoto’s voice is light, with the slightest edge of sadness.

Haru’s moving, fast, _suddenly,_ stepping angrily out of his shoes without untying them and whipping down his pants, wriggling the _(really)_ skinny jeans up his long legs. He pulls his boxy t-shirt tight around his waist so he can see himself better, and just looks at himself in the mirror, stance wide, staring himself down.

There’s a soft rap of knuckles on his door, then Makoto’s easing it open as he murmurs “…coming in...” Haru keeps staring, not even really seeing himself now, while Makoto leans in the doorway behind him and sighs.

“Those look good, Haru,” he finally says. “You know … I think you should get them. You could wear them to this reunion thing.” He chuckles, lightly, in that way Haru knows means he isn’t being made fun of. “Don’t they say you’re supposed to, like, show everyone how hot you got? Just imagine everyone’s faces when they see you in _those._ ” He pauses, and Haru finally lets his shirt go, returning to the shapeless comfort he came in with.

“Imagine _Kisumi’s_ face.”

Haru glances back over his shoulder at Makoto, and his flat-out _salacious_ look is so over-the-top ridiculous Haru’s snickering. “No, you’re the one he’s gonna flip over,” he teases, running a shameless stare down Makoto’s legs. He’s in navy too, close-fitting, but Haru looks like a couple of toothpicks, whereas Makoto … Makoto’s projecting “bodybuilder-who’s-a-librarian-on-the-side,” and it’s a very good look for him. But Makoto just gives him an unreadable smile.

“Let’s get real, Haru-chan,” he says, giving Haru’s shoulder a squeeze before returning to his cubicle.

Haru’s blinking at the mirror again, wondering _…what did I just agree to?_

*

“Emiko! Hi!!” Makoto calls, waving madly as he and Haru walk up to the harbor – and its dense clot of young adults, chattering brightly and hugging each other and exploding in bursts of excited laughter. A tall, muscular woman – almost as big as Makoto – is waving back to them, separating from the herd and jogging to meet them.

 _…did everyone get tall but me?_ he thinks sardonically.

“Tachibana Makoto!! Wooow, how good is it to see you?” she asks, and Haru looks tactfully away as they share a big hug. She’s got an armful of fabric leis, and the colorful flowers rustle against Makoto’s hair as she gives his neck a squeeze.

“Not as good as it is to see you! Still playing basketball?”

Her lined eyes are bright as she backs off, pulling a lei out for him. He smiles and ducks down so she can loop it around his neck. “Nah, I switched to volleyball in college. _Fun,_ I’ll tell you. You still playing?”

Haru stumbles a step as Makoto suddenly pulls him forward by the elbow, like a mom introducing her son to company, even though he was in this woman’s class … never mind that he’s unable to place her.

“No. I switched back to swimming at Iwatobi High with Haru, here. It changed my life,” he says earnestly, and Haru _wants_ to tell him to stop being melodramatic – but in this case, he’s right: it did. Their Amazonian classmate is smiling down at him now, and something about her expression – the way she looks back and forth between them, both all-knowing and craving more – makes him nervous. He looks away.

“Nanase Haruka, oh, I’m so happy you came. You know, when I mailed a flier to you I wondered if you’d make it, given how big you’ve gotten since the Olympics! But I guess I figured Makoto’d be by your side.” He looks back in time to catch her wink, as she leans slightly to “lei” him. (He carefully ignores Makoto’s narrow look next to him as his little white lie of omission about the invitation is revealed.)

“…hi, Emiko,” he finally says, and she beams like he made a whole speech.

“…speaking of ‘by your side,’” she’s going on, raising her eyebrows to Makoto, “do you know if Shigino Kisumi’s coming? None of us could be sure we had the right address and we really hoped he hadn’t gone off the grid.”

Makoto frowns. He sounds almost embarrassed as he answers. “We haven’t seen him in … oh, God, ten years either. Not since our last 8th-grade camping trip. Right, Haru?”

Haru doesn’t trust himself to look up. Somehow, _somehow,_ he manages to say “…right, the camping trip,” and sound normal, if quiet. But while his eyes gaze down at his hands on the strap of his duffle bag, he remembers a row of tents along the beach, bright and cheerful, and an excited shuffle of kids heaving bags in with their overnight companions … and the _ziiip!_ of the tent flap opening at the end of the row.

A fluffy head of pink hair popping out.

 _Haruuu! Oh, you_ gotta _stay in my tent tonight! No one’s claimed me yet!_

A swirl of guilt, and uncertainty, and _thrill,_ all so unfamiliar.

_I … I want to, but Makoto…_

Kisumi’s high laugh … oh, how he remembers that laugh.

 _Hey, Makoto told me he wants you to! He’s already got a spot with someone else. He wanted to be sure you had some fun and didn’t have to babysit him all night._ A companionable wink.

And Haru went ahead, because it _did_ sound like something Makoto might do for him … and at the same time, not at all.

*

The boat – a big thing able to fit all thirty of them for the ride to the same beach they held their camping trip ten years ago – is just about to push away from the dock when Haru hears him.

“Heeeyyy! Hey, guys, wait up!” his unmistakable voice yells, _loud,_ and approaching fast,over the low thrum of the boat’s engine. Haru watches as Makoto immediately abandons his enthusiastic conversation with some guy about his new baby, craning his neck back toward the town. Haru has a much better view from his spot leaning against the observation deck rail, where he retreated as fast as possible after the inevitable stir when his former classmates recognized “the Olympian.”

So, he gets Kisumi in all his … beautiful, _stupid_ gloryas he sprints madly to the dock, arms waving and backpack bouncing. And Haru could practically cry, or maybe bust out in unhinged laughter, at the way his brain oh-so-helpfully takes the moment and _slllows it down,_ like it’s storing it for safe-keeping without his consent.

One of those high-resolution memories you only have when things are really good or really bad.

His hair, that’s the thing that hasn’t changed a bit, so bright-pink in the noon sun it looks like a wig. Cotton-candy doesn’t cut it. Kisumi’s hair is bubble-gum pink, _hot_ pink, the kind of pink “sassy” middle-aged women wear to show how “sassy” they are. It’s … insane. How did Haru never fully appreciate before how completely insane it is that this guy’s hair is PINK?

Otherwise Kisumi’s … practically a stranger. Whereas Haru never grew out of his own babyface and will always be on the short side, the man almost at their dock now is just that: a _man._

Face, long and lean, body too, with the overmuscled-wingspan of an ostrich or something. Tall. _Huge._ But his flailing and screaming are so familiar Haru almost finds himself getting nostalgic.

Almost.

“Hold the boat! We got one more!” someone calls, and then someone else yells “Hey, it’s Kisumi!” and by the time the huge, gangly guy heaves himself onto the idling boat, panting like he’s dying, the whole class is chanting “ _Kis-u-mi! Kis-u-mi!”_

The whole class but Makoto, that is, who’s beaming like an estranged brother just decided to give reconciliation a try, and Haru, who quietly fades as far back on the boat as he can and still be on board, ending up wedged next to the life-preserver.

 _Well isn’t that ironic,_ he thinks a little frantically.

The chants have meanwhile dissolved into a lusty cheer, guys whacking Kisumi on the back like that’ll help him get his breath back faster. Haru watches as he puts the back of his wrist to his forehead like he’s Scarlett O’Hara once he can stand again, getting a burst of appreciative laughter from the little knot around him.

Then Makoto’s stepping in to greet him … and they’re hugging, this big, happy hug, Kisumi slapping Makoto’s back … and Haru has a tiny sliver of thought, there and gone like a meteor burning itself out.

 _I wonder what it must be like to just be able to_ do _that. I wonder if it’s a relief._

He carefully turns away, hunching in to become as small as possible, leaning on his elbows on the rail and peering down at the churn as they back out into open water. The high sun catches in the waves and flashes back at him, and he just keeps staring down, letting the winks of light and the hum of the engine distract him.

Until there’s an arm – sudden, _heavy –_ around his shoulders and he’s hit with a wave of cologne, musky and _way_ too strong.

“… _just_ the guy I wanted to see,” Kisumi breathes in his ear, and all of it – the arm, the cologne ( _for a_ camping _trip??)_ , the totallack of personal space, a week’s worth of nerves – comes boiling over, and Haru has his hands braced against Kisumi’s side and he _shoves._ It’s not something Haru typically does, even as absolutely not-warm-fuzzy as his communication habits undoubtedly are. But it’s almost like his body is willing to admit something about this man that his conscious mind is still trying to puzzle out. Is willing to be _honest_ in a way even beyond where his mouth usually is.

And he’s seized with complete, uncomplicated glee, the first simple emotion he’s had since getting the damn flyer, as his former friend goes down, tripping over his giant feet.

Somehow Kisumi manages to make it look funny, even sort of intentional. But a girl still gasps behind them and Makoto’s there instantly, like he apparated. Haru can’t hold back a tiny scowl as he helps Kisumi carefully to his feet, _apologizing_ … and still, still _,_ Kisumi’s laughing it off.

“That’s some welcome, Haru!” Kisumi sing-songs, too loud, ruffling a hand through that hair. Makoto bends over, trying to brush Kisumi’s jeans off for him, but he just grabs Makoto by an arm and pulls him back up. “No, Makoto, I’m fine, really.”

Makoto pins Haru with an unusually intense look. “Good! Wouldn’t want you to start the trip with a sprained ankle, huh, Haru?”

“Oh, I can think of worse things,” Haru replies unthinkingly.

“Haru!”

Kisumi flicks a glance over at Makoto – sort of an _I got this_ look – and draws it slowly back to Haru, and Haru feels his aesthetic sensibility betray him, as he’s caught up in Kisumi’s eyes.

 _…Rei’s are the same shade, I think, but his eyes are wise. Kisumi’s aren’t_ wise _. Kisumi’s …_

Kisumi’s are _bemused_ , and sharpened with this edge of anger, or maybe frustration, and bright – almost avid – as they consider each other. They’re mysterious. Haru is sure Kisumi’s eyes are another thing that hasn’t changed, but the almost-exotic pair assessing him intently now is mysterious, just the same. Unfamiliar.

“Still the same, Haru,” Kisumi finally says like he’s making an ironic mind-read. He runs that almost-nervous hand, grown huge like the rest of him, through his hair again. “You know, it’s so funny, I was sorta dying to know if you’d changed or not since we last saw each other. I almost caved and looked Makoto up to ask him!” He laughs suddenly like that’s the funniest thing in the world and leans an arm on Makoto’s shoulder.

“What’s so funny about that?” Makoto protests, and Haru thinks desperately at him, _no, no Makoto,_ please _don’t pull a “why didn’t we all stay in touch” bullshit thing now. Please._ He adds a fervent stare.

Makoto isn’t listening. “Why didn’t you contact me, Kisumi! That would’ve been a total blast! I – _we_ – missed you all these years!”

“Really? I don’t know about that, actually,” Kisumi says immediately, and his stare hasn’t moved an inch from Haru. It’s bordering on rude in its intensity. “Seems like you guys were probably pretty happy the way things turned out. Looks like you both have everything you want.”

A long moment spins out, almost exquisitely uncomfortable, no one saying a thing. Haru starts to wonder if Kisumi’s punk’ing them as their staredown continues. He’s almost grateful to Makoto when he intervenes, laying a hand on each of their shoulders, face edging towards distraught.

“…what? What are you talking about, Kisumi?? Seriously, what’s going on?”

There – like Makoto’s a wizard breaking a spell – Kisumi blinks and grins, and the moment is obliterated. He claps a big hand on Haru’s other shoulder so now they’re in this bizarre frenemy ring and Haru can _feel_ the weight of probably 28 nosy pairs of eyes on their backs. Not that he cares.

“Ah, don’t listen to me, Makoto. I’m really happy to see you both too. You know, you’re the reason I came to this dumb thing! ‘Ten year reunion,’ I about died laughing. Didn’t even give us time to get fat, right, Haru?” Then – almost like they all got together and planned it out for maximum ridiculousness beforehand – Kisumi does a quick look down each of them, both in their new navy jeans from the other day, and Haru wants to murder Makoto for talking him into actually wearing the damn skinny jeans after all.

“…no danger of that with _you_ two, though. Holy shit, talk about fit! You two still swimming? Or lemme guess: Haru took up ballet instead.” His mysterious eyes squint in obnoxious satisfaction at his joke, and Haru takes the overdue step of knocking the hand off his shoulder. He lets Makoto’s stay as Kisumi just laughs happily, apparently unoffended at yet another rejection.

Makoto has his mouth open but Haru beats him to it, knowing he’s being a shit who’s acting all of five years old and not caring. “Makoto. Please tell Kisumi ballet is a beautiful artform and I would be honored to have that kind of coordination. On land. Unlike some people.” He looks expectantly up at Makoto as if he believes his poor, put-upon best friend will _actually_ do such a stupid thing for him.

He isn’t at all surprised when Makoto sighs, a small sigh, like he’s been stuck on a crossword puzzle clue for the past half-hour and has given up. He finally withdraws his hands from their shoulders and crosses his arms on his broad chest, and Haru gets a renewed sense of who the real adult is here.

“Haru, I’m sorry. No.” He turns his look a little wearily to Kisumi. “Thank you, that’s nice of you to say. But I’m sure you know about Haru’s Olympic performance…? Bronze for Japan in the 100m freestyle, all of Iwatobi was talking about it…” He stops there, and Haru’s weirdly touched, knowing how proud Makoto was and still is and at the same time how much he hates to sound like he’s bragging, how completely _humble_ he is. Even when it’s on Haru’s behalf and even when he hardly deserves it, like now.

…and Kisumi, Kisumi does the most incongruous thing, _blushing_ even as he winks cheekily at Haru.

“Ah, I’m just pulling your legs. Of COURSE I saw it, you couldn’t swing a dead cat without hitting someone who was talking about it, making bets on it. My mom kept a scrapbook, kept telling the ladies at work ‘he was best friends with _my boy_ ,’ _God_ she’s embarrassing. My little brother actually wrote a fanfiction about it, can you believe that, Haru??”

Haru just blinks mutely, finding no words in the whole of his left-hemisphere to correctly capture his feelings on the matter. He isn’t as sure of how he feels about Makoto pinch-hitting for his mouth this time.

“Oh, Kisumi! That’s awesome!” Makoto is legitimately beaming. “Did they keep that stuff? I’d love to see it! Fanfiction about _Haru,_ that’s, that’s…” He does his delighted-laugh and _finally,_ Haru’s lips work.

“If you show Makoto Hayato’s … _fan_ fic, I’ll … well. You just don’t wanna know what I’ll do.”

Makoto just happy-laughs again like he has no faith in Haru’s threats and Kisumi … Kisumi leans against the guardrail, and gives Haru another of those look-overs. But his face was all-clown the first time, while this time it’s all-serious.

“You’re on,” he challenges.

*

The wave of deja-vu that hits Haru as they reach the beach is so powerful, it feels a little like drowning, for a second. Are they 24, is he a decorated Olympian (and otherwise just ordinary) and is Makoto a grad student (and not at all ordinary) and is Kisumi … this big, infuriating conundrum grinning at their side? Or are they 14 all over again, stupid little confused boys who don’t know their ass from their elbow?

 _Stupid little HORNY boys,_ his brain pops in like it’s trying to be helpful.

“…Wowww! Look at that! Just like old times!” Kisumi breathes, seeming just as caught by the row of cheerful tents marching down the shore, the giant bonfire set up a safe distance away. “Ugh, now I really _am_ sorry we didn’t stay in touch. We could’ve gone camping together! Makoto, wasn’t your family really into that?”

Makoto smiles; Haru wills himself to just keep his poker face and beat back the scowl that wants to crawl out. “Yeah! We did it all the time growing up. We don’t anymore, now that Haru and I are living in Tokyo. Trips like that are sort of a production now.” He gets a wistful look, a sort of faraway cast to his eyes. Haru stays silent.

Kisumi drops his backpack on the sand, making a show of groaning like it’s full of rocks even as Haru can tell it’s basically empty. _He’s gotta have condoms and stuff in there, though,_ his brain busts in again. _‘Cause hey: this is KISUMI we’re talking about here…_

“You guys like Tokyo? It’s such a big city though, I would think that’d be really hard! But at least you can stay together, right? Just like old times.” He’s smiling neutrally down the beach, but Haru reads something forced again in his words, sort of bitter, and he’s suddenly tired of it. Just … tired of the whole, innuendo-laden, ridiculous thing.

He turns to face Kisumi and cranes his neck to look up at him. “Makoto and I aren’t together,” he says bluntly.

Makoto gives a funny little twitch next to him, like they’re at a haunted house and something’s just popped out, and Haru supposes that’s exactly right, poor Makoto isn’t used to him doing anything for himself. Anything like _this,_ anyway.

Kisumi’s whipped his head over and down to face Haru so fast it would be funny in another context. “Haru…? What are you saying?”

Haru sighs. “Makoto and I. We don’t live together in Tokyo –” and Kisumi’s face, it does the subtlest little _fall –_ “and we aren’t _together-_ together.” He gives a tiny shrug. “We figured out a long time ago that we’re better just being friends.”

Makoto’s saying “Haru…” very softly then, almost absentmindedly, and Haru glances up to find Makoto smiling at him. It’s not his embarrassed smile, or his “I’m OK” smile, or his happy smile. It’s just Makoto looking proud of him somehow, and a little sad, and so fond, that Haru knows Makoto gets it. They’ve talked about it … as much as he and Makoto talk about anything. They still have these – _moments,_ these charged things together that are sometimes intentionally “sexy” like their mutual check-out in the dressing room, but other times are … _sensual,_ sexy without any quote-marks in sight. A few drunken cuddle sessions devolving into messy makeouts that don’t go anywhere. Leaning over to insist Makoto taste something as he cooks, catching his eyes a few beats too long. The comfort of Makoto’s shirts on his skin, whenever he can get them.

But at the same time, as the years in Tokyo have gone by, they’ve done a gentle, mutual … pushing-away, like they’re two kids playing in a pool shoving off from each other’s hands. Makoto has _blossomed_ in Tokyo, his phone contact-list exploding exponentially while Haru’s stays anemic. He’s even helped Makoto dress for a few dates, able to dispassionately dig through his closet while Makoto nervously puts on too much body spray and effusively thanks Haru for his help.

And he’s – almost _ruthless_ in his search for potential matches for Haru. Teammate who he hears Haru mention more than once? Date material. Guy in Makoto’s “Principles of Child Development” class who raved about Haru’s swimming when he found out their connection? Date material. Hot cashier who kept unnecessarily coming by to ask if they needed help in the cat-toy section at the pet-store? Date material.

With this history, Haru’s absolutely unsurprised by Makoto’s – gentle, passive-aggressive – matchmaking with Kisumi, as … messy, and complicated, as it is. And Makoto doesn’t really know the half of it.

“ _Jesus,_ Haru. Have you ever minced words? In your life?” Kisumi’s laughing, and Haru overlooks any implied critique of his nonexistent social skills. Then Kisumi shuts up, looks down at him almost too-seriously for the situation. “Let’s share a tent again. You and me and Makoto. Just like last time.”

“Uh, if you remember last time, Kisumi, you somehow got Haru to sleep with you.” Makoto has the decency to blush slightly, realizing what he just said, and again, Haru thinks, _Makoto, if you only knew._ “Two-man tents, no room for three. So you guys go ahead. Just like last time! I bet I can even share Michi-kun’s again.” This time Makoto’s smile is somewhere between his happy one and his “I’m OK” one, and Haru knows that’s true, Makoto _will_ be okay. That this was quite possibly his plan all along.

Kisumi, interestingly, just bends down to pick his backpack up, hooks it on one shoulder, and heads for the last tent in the line, vacant and unclaimed. He looks back, seemingly impatiently, when Haru doesn’t immediately follow.

“…are you coming or not?” he asks, sending Haru this heated stare over one huge shoulder Haru _knows_ is Kisumi’s attempt at a Sex-Look. And he wishes he could lobotomize the parts of his brain that can recognize said look _and_ that made the questionable choice to call it that.

And while he’s at it, the parts of his brain that handle judgment and motor control, because both are failing him miserably as he drifts forward, following inconceivably after Kisumi like the guy has him on some invisible leash.

“…Have fun!” comes Makoto’s – pleased – voice from behind him.

*

Haru’s … in hell. It’s not that he minds the forced participation and general chaos of the stupid getting-to-know-you-again activities _all_ that much, “somehow” getting stuck with “swimmer” in their Charades game, even catching himself enjoying the “draw a picture of your favorite middle-school memory” as he produces a detailed sketch of Makoto in a cow costume stealing the show at their Christmas pageant.

No, it’s – the added Kisumi Factor of having him there, right beside Haru, through all of it, from zero to all Kisumi all at once. He just … puts out ten times the energy of other people, or maybe just takes ten times the energy from Haru, throwing himself into everything on the agenda like he’s hoping to get the Camper of the Year award. He has seemingly no shame or even self-consciousness, which Haru grudgingly admires. But part of that apparently comes in the form of testing Haru in every possible way.

Lipsyncing this terrible slow-jam R&B love-song _right at_ Haru during his group’s skit? Check. Drawing a clumsy stick-figure of Haru offering the seat in front of him on their first day of seventh grade? Check. The worst of it has to be the full-Western hotdogs and s’mores dinner, Kisumi wedging chummily in between him and Makoto around the fire and laughing and bumping their knees together and holding eye contact with Haru too often, too long. It’s obnoxious and confusing and weirdly exciting and by the end of it Haru is practically needing to meditate to avoid flinging himself in the ocean.

Then Kisumi insists he try a bite of his s’more, piled with practically every option available from the little S’more Bar. Haru just skeptically (and wearily) eyes the rainbow sprinkles overbalancing from the top of the insane monstrosity.

“…don’t you remember what happened the _last_ time you fed me?” he finds himself muttering, and Kisumi’s eyes widen, oh, _yes_ he apparently does, which is oddly comforting because Haru has never forgotten.

Makoto’s leaning over on his thighs to be able to see them both, grinning. “What’s this? You fed Haru, Kisumi?”

Haru gives up, falling backwards on his back into the sand. “Forget it. Traumatic memory.”

Kisumi’s going on above him. “Oh, man. It just sorta seemed like something I had to do. I can’t even remember what was in my lunch that day.”

“…crab rolls,” Haru whispers. Kisumi makes no sign of having heard him.

“I just remember thinking, Haru _has_ to try what I’ve got. So I gave him a piece off my fork.”

“Providing vital ‘oh my God they’re so GAY’ entertainment for the whole class,” Haru adds, watching the sparks from the fire shoot madly into the sky and wink out.

And then his almost panoramic view of the stars is eclipsed, Kisumi leaning over on an elbow and hanging his head right over him, so close they could kiss. _Really_ give their stupid class something to chatter about. He doesn’t, just draws his eyes over Haru’s face again, and Haru’s so surprised by the whole thing he floats there, speechless, the sand soft around him.

Kisumi finally holds his insane s’more up again, with a little smile, and Haru wants to die laughing, because really – why the hell is this guy always trying to get him to eat? But he’s holding it to Haru’s lips, and Haru thinks _fuck it,_ and takes a generous bite.

It’s 12 kinds of too-sweet, and it’s a gigantic mess, the (thankfully lukewarm) marshmallow lava oozing out as Kisumi pulls it back. Haru ends up with a totally-suggestive smear of white goo dripping down his chin and he frowns fiercely, sitting up to scrub his face with a napkin. Makoto mercifully says nothing though Haru keeps his eyes safely turned away and can’t tell what his best friend’s face may be saying. Kisumi’s practically in ecstasy, beaming at him in pure delight.

“Wonder if THAT was gay enough for ‘em?” he smirks.

Haru flops hopelessly back down.

…and then, too soon, it’s happening, the night at an end and the fire just a circle of angry-looking embers, with nothing left to do … but go to bed.

Kisumi unfolds, holds a hand down to him – and Haru hesitantly takes it, popping up too fast on Kisumi’s enthusiastic assist and almost going flying. He lingers as Makoto stands, smiling down at him one more time.

“You know where I am if you need me,” Haru blurts, and then they’re _both_ laughing at him, and he’s _this_ close to telling both oversized dudes to take the damn tent together and he’ll sleep on the beach. But Makoto just shakes his head and does this quick sweep across Haru’s chin with his thumb, like Haru didn’t get all the marshmallow. Haru’s doubtful but he allows it.

“Good night, guys,” Makoto tells them, wistfully. “That was really fun to spend the day together. Just like old times.” Then he’s off to meet Michi at their tent, and it’s just Haru and Kisumi. No more buffers.

The tent is … weirdly welcoming inside, once Kisumi flicks on the little LED lantern he brought that hangs from the peak of the dome and makes the whole thing glow softly. He turns back to find Haru’s still crouching at the open door. Like he needs a secret password to come in and he’s forgotten it. Or like there’s some wild animal (a raccoon, maybe) rooting around in there and he’s refusing to make a move until Kisumi’s dealt with it.

Kisumi’s face squeezes up as he snort-chuckles into a fist. “Oh, c’mon now, Haru. I don’t bite.”

Haru seriously doubts that but he forces himself to crawl in, reluctantly pulling the door shut and effectively sealing them off from the world. He flops onto his soft sleeping bag – a careful distance from Kisumi’s – and catches himself starting to relax before he realizes his next potential nightmare.

“Taking off my damn pants. _Don’t_ get the wrong idea,” he says in a rush, then is surprised to find himself adding, “Stupid Makoto, peer-pressuring me to wear _skinny jeans_ camping, what was I thinking??”

“Makoto’s not stupid,” Kisumi replies instantly, leaning on an elbow in his own sleeping bag and gazing at him so intently Haru feels like one of those “How many items can you find wrong with this picture?” things. “Who doesn’t wanna look good for their reunion? Makes sense to me.”

“Stupid,” Haru repeats stubbornly as he peels the skintight things off, enjoying the instant relief of finally just being in his jammers. He stretches out experimentally, and the feeling of just lying in the cushy nylon, in the dimness, is so unexpectedly pleasant he lets out a soft little sigh.

Next to him, Kisumi is not only getting rid of his own jeans but his t-shirt, too, just pulling a pair of sweatpants on and apparently planning to sleep barechested. Haru tries to keep his eyes stoically on the smooth curve of the ceiling, but they don’t behave, wandering again and again to take in what Kisumi turned into. He looks like a basketball player, basically; so rangy and long and strong he practically doesn’t look “Asian” anymore, like he belongs on a court in a little uniform. It’s the inverted triangle of his shoulders and pecs that Haru’s eyes keep returning to, so defined it’s like his (milky, white) skin can barely keep all the muscle in.

Haru crosses his arms over his face, praying Kisumi can’t see whatever may be going on in his jammers, steeling himself for the worst. He isn’t expecting what Kisumi says next.

“Haru,” and his voice is hesitant, almost shy. “I got you something for your birthday yesterday. It’s nothing really, just a card,” he corrects himself hurriedly, like getting Haru an actual gift would’ve crossed some unforgiveable line and lightning would strike their tent down, or something. Haru pulls his arms away slowly, to see Kisumi kneeling, holding a blue envelope out to him.

Haru leverages himself up too, facing his former friend and smiling unwittingly at the front of the envelope. _~*~*~*FISH MAN*~*~*~_ is who Kisumi sees him as, apparently, done in a silver glitter pen and glinting up at him.

Kisumi reads his reaction pretty well. “Yeah, I know, it’s dumb, but that’s what you are to me! You’ve always been some kind of crazy magic merman. I love that about you.” Then he stops, like even _he_ feels the subtle line “I love” crosses, regardless of what he actually said.

Haru snorts, and just smiles, and pops the envelope open. When he sees the front of the card he can’t help but laugh, at the _ridiculous_ picture of a pair of side-by-side breeching dolphins, with Photoshopped partyhats and balloons tied to their outside flippers and a birthday cake (complete with lit candles) held between their inside flippers. The piece de resistance, though, has to be the terrible pun inside: _Hope you have such a whale of a good birthday, you flip!_

“Did you get this in the kids’ section…?” Haru teases.

“Yeah? So??” Kisumi blusters in mock-anger, which just gets Haru giggling again. Then he looks down below, to what Kisumi’s written, and he goes quiet.

 _So I have to tell you, Haru: I’m so, so sorry I was a little jerk after the 8 th grade trip. We had such a – _and here he’s crossed something out, in crazy swirls and sworls that don’t fit the unexpectedly elegant lines of his handwriting at all – _nice time that night, and I just went and screwed it up. I’m so sorry I didn’t call you and didn’t write or any of that stuff. I guess I … I guess I figured if I didn’t hear from you, that made sense b/c after all you had Makoto, and what else did you need? Anyway._

_I hope this reunion can give us a sorta fresh start. I really, really miss you and would love to see if you do too…?_

He’s doodled a little hopeful cat face, paws together like it’s praying. And signed just with a heart.

Haru blinks down, focusing on the incongruity of Kisumi’s lovely script so he doesn’t have to consider the words, not yet; then he slowly looks up.

Kisumi hasn’t moved a muscle, it’s like they’re playing an indoor sedentary version of Freeze Tag and Haru’s caught him, but his face is so open and vulnerable Haru almost snaps at him to quit it. At the same time, something deep inside _hurts,_ those words did that mysterious THING only certain songs do to Haru, when there’s a shift to just the right minor key or the lyrics call up just the right image in his mind. He swallows past a hard, hot lump in his throat.

“…Kisumi. So … that next morning.” He forces it out, as stupid as it is, as painful and embarrassing and _14 years old._ “You … you didn’t hate what we did? You didn’t hate me?” And Haru looks off to the side, because this is simply too much.

And he’s suddenly enveloped by long, bare arms, his cheek pressed against Kisumi’s hot smooth chest, and he’s so startled he doesn’t make a single move to escape.

“Haru, Haru, no, never, _never._ Oh, God, I loved every second of it, do you know how important that was for my future fantasy needs??” Haru’s cheek vibrates as Kisumi laughs breathlessly, and it tickles.

Haru wriggles back then, staring disbelievingly up as Kisumi’s pretty eyes widen so big, but it’s not funny, not funny at all.

“How could I hate you? Someone like _you?_ No way, Haru. Never.” The arms around him tighten, and still Haru doesn’t try to get away. It’s this … digging up of such an old and hardened thing, so deep in him, Kisumi’s words are poking at it and kicking it, knocking it to pieces.

“But … you never called because of Makoto…?” Haru murmurs, completely not understanding, and Kisumi cracks a wry smile.

“Did _you_ never call because of Makoto? It’s a two-way street, Haru.”

“No. Yes! I don’t fucking know. We were 14 years old! I didn’t have a clue what to do!”

Kisumi looks down like he’s just noticed he has the winning chess move in the bag. “Yup, you’re right. I didn’t have a clue either.” Dimly, so distantly, Haru feels two big hands move hesitantly up his back, cradling his shoulderblades, and _why_ does it have to feel so good?

“…can we try to get a clue again, together, Haru?”

“Stop fucking saying all the right things. That is so annoying,” Haru hisses, and he ducks his head back down into Kisumi’s chest, which is soft and firm and comforting and he doesn’t have to think. Just rest, just enjoy the weird and foreign feeling of this chest again, so different ten years later.

His cheek jostles as Kisumi laughs. He quiets, and Haru knows what he’s about to ask a second before the words vibrate through his ear.

“Haru, is it okay if I kiss you…?”

“No,” he says immediately, then quickly blunders on so Kisumi doesn’t misunderstand him. “No, I’m … let’s wait, on that.” He frowns at the pink nipple so close to his eyes it’s just a soft blur. “Can – can we just go to bed? To sleep? Like this?”

He isn’t even sure Kisumi will have a clue what he meant in that borderline-incoherent jumble of confused thoughts, but it’s … almost uncanny.

Kisumi doesn’t answer him.

They slowly tip down, still awkwardly wrapped up together, ending up nestled in Kisumi’s sleeping bag. Haru almost laughs, as Kisumi’s arms are so freakishly long he can turn off the light just by reaching up, but he appreciates the sudden darkness too much.

They shift a bit, getting comfortable on their sides with Haru tucked into Kisumi and Kisumi enfolding him, chin on the top of his head, arm thrown over his back, knees bumping. Haru’s heart doesn’t feel right, or safe even, going so fast it’s more like an animal’s (a bunny, maybe) instead of a human. It feels good to be … tucked away like this, though. And Kisumi’s other hand is in his hair, somehow, petting it like he IS an animal.

That feels good, too.

“…thanks for the card,” he whispers, and he isn’t even sure Kisumi heard him. Then the top arm gives him a squeeze.

“Good night, Haru,” Kisumi whispers back.

*

“Ahhh, I can’t believe how fast that went!” Makoto says. They’re standing in a little ring – a real ring, they’re all facing each other and everything – on the dock, preparing to leave. Makoto and Haru will be taking their sleepwalk-familiar walk back towards the hills, where the Tachibana’s have lunch ready for them (and Ran has texted Makoto that she and Ren are “ready to attack nii-chan and onii-chan”).

Kisumi will be joining them, Makoto inviting him as soon as they all stumbled out for breakfast, glancing at Haru for confirmation in a way Haru knows is Makoto’s “discreet.” It was so careful and almost cute he wanted to burst out laughing, but he just smiled a little shyly at Makoto, over at Kisumi.

“I’d totally love that,” Kisumi enthused.

So they make their last goodbyes to anyone who they’ve actually connected with (or, _Makoto and Kisumi_ do while Haru gets his ocean-viewing on) and wave as they turn towards town, “Makoto and Haru AND Kisumi” once again.

***

OH GOD I THINK I HAVE TO WRITE THAT OLYMPIAN!HARU FANFIC “BY” HAYATO SHIGINO NOW… maybe it’ll be MakoHaru, about his favorite teacher too. God *writhes uncomfortably*

…So, even as this thing veers perilously into CrackLand, I truly do base it in my own (half-serious) headcanon about Kisumi and Haru in middle school that’s probably total conjecture, just based on ep8. Basically, just looking at that teasingly-short flashback they give us in that ep, Haru seems to be genuinely friendly w Kisumi … or at least “open” to him. DAT FEEDING SCENE … but it’s not just that. So I just got convinced: it wouldn’t be total b.s. to see someone like Kisumi, a total flirt like that, trying his amateur hand out on a willing and naïve 14 yr old Haru … and the whole thing crashing down when Kisumi acts like a little 14 yr old flaky shit the subsequent morning. Hell hath no fury like a Haru scorned ;P

Thank you SO much to the one-and-only [Daxii](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Daxii/pseuds/Daxii) for shoving so many folks down the criminally-vacant KisuHaru path with this prompt. Props to [Eristastic](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4282671) for being the 1st to post and also for almost singlehandedly populating this tag lately lol, and to anyone reading: please, *please* feel free to give this prompt or any other KisuHaru idea that strikes your fancy a try. THIS SHIP NEEDS AND DESERVES all the love it can get! :D

And thank you so very much for reading, any comments you’d like to leave ARE LIFE <3 :)


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